


After Hours

by corvinomorte



Series: The Yatagarasu Stories [1]
Category: midnight diner, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Coming of Age, Gen, Mentor/Protégé, Original Character(s), Other, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25939669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvinomorte/pseuds/corvinomorte
Summary: Welcome to the Yatagarsu, a small bar located at the bottom of a set of old stairs that takes any and all customers. Whether they be heroes or villains, scions of good or paragons of evil, only two rules must be followed. If you can do that, you can share a drink with the bartender and any others who stumble into the bar.This is my first series of fanfics, and if nothing else, I hope you find interest and enjoyment in these stories!
Series: The Yatagarasu Stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882612
Kudos: 2





	After Hours

I bought the Yata three years after moving to Samukawa. Like me, the owner had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go, and he hadn’t seen anyone from outside of town visit the dinky bar in over a decade. It took me a month to wind my way to Samukawa from Cairo, and after a long-time walking, I was ready to settle down and rest my bones. Before the previous owner, a cheerful fellow named Yusaku Mori, even finished pouring me a cup of tea, I made my offer: fifty-thousand yen per square foot. The bar could only hold five people including myself, needed a new bar counter, shelves, and wiring, but I’d put in the work for a little haven.

He paused for a moment, his face scrunching up in a tight bundle of glossy folds of slick gray skin. I’d forgotten the delicacy and etiquette required of me, but the price point seemed to assuage any offense. Mr. Yusaku readily shook my hand and opened up a dusty old bottle of whisky he’d apparently saved for his retirement. And as he shook with excitement, I understood more clearly why his bar never got the customers it needed. Before meeting with Mr. Yusaku, I asked around town to learn more about the dusty bar at the bottom of a set of creaking stairs with a half-legible sign above it. All the locals—over the age of fifty—lamented over its decay, how they remembered the jazz musicians who would play outside the steps, and how things changed when Mr. Yusaku took over. The musicians still played, but they moved away due to the—smell.

Mr. Yusaku possessed a unique and somewhat obtrusive quirk unbefitting the service industry: Hagfish. This mutant quirk gave Mr. Yusaku many of the qualities of his natural counterpart—especially the ability to produce a thick viscous mucus when agitated or, as I witnessed, excited. As we knocked glasses to honor our arrangement, I noticed thin stinking strands stretch between the two tumblers. However, I knocked it back quickly and did my best not to think much of it.

However, I would continue to think on it deeply as I spent six months repolishing and cleaning each floorboard, dismantling and removing the stained bar top, and airing out every nook and crack and cranny of the five-hundred square-foot establishment I—and many others call home. I ordered a local carpenter to rebuild the bar top—a custom designed counter with interior storage made of fresh Hinoki wood—and the sign that hung above the doorframe.

By late August, I hung up the smooth charred wood sign with a bright white crow on its face, and the name Yatagarasu emblazoned beneath it in gold filigree. My bar is open from 8 am to 8 pm. I do not serve food; however, I do allow deliveries and people to bring in their own sustenance. I offer service to clients both in the professional hero scene and villains—because even they may deserve or need a place to run away and find peace.

I only have two rules. The first and most important: do not use any patron’s real name. I pride myself in upholding a standard of anonymity. No one is permitted to use any professional or personal names, and they may not wear their uniforms or gear. The second rule is simple: do not fight in the bar, take it outside and know you will be banned from my establishment. If someone transgresses my rules without knowing, the first time only, I have a discussion with them, personally, and after hours, as to why the police, the villains, and the Heroes Association have respected my neutrality for the past number of decades. I don’t play for either side. Heroes, villains, good, evil. Just simply people attempting to live by their ideals. Do I lament the sight of a burning building? The injured taken to hospitals and the death tolls of those caught in the crossfire? Of course, I do. Human life is sacred to me and I never wish to see it abused or wasted. But I have no authority to judge or condemn another for their actions—I have paid for the price of my idealism as much as any.

This is why Rabbit often comes to visit when he travels between the various prefectures. He enjoys speaking to me, questioning why I operate as I do when he spends most of his days fighting back—for justice and to save everyone he can. It’s the question of philosophy that I find fascinating and which I think he finds—reassuring. He keeps quite busy now, and last I heard he’d come close to achieving the rank of #1. But he always stops by the Yata for a glass of hot green tea, and conversation. And I’ll admit, I’m proud of how far he’s come.

Rabbit came in for the first time when he was just a young man, barely out of his teens, and escorted by a man I had not seen in nearly twenty years at that point. “Goat, welcome back to the Yatagarasu.” I offered Goat a bow and a warm smile.

He returned it gently, walking up to the bar top while Rabbit followed two steps behind, looking about constantly as though he’d be snatched up by a hungry falcon. “Well, I’m surprised you recognize me like—” Goat motioned down to his body. I’d not seen him in some time, but the years had taken their toll. Where I remembered a young man with a brimming smile and bright blonde hair, built to grapple the world and it’s terrors, now stood a thin husk, swimming in a Houndstooth suit too large for him, with deep sunken eyes and gaunt features that made me think of ghouls and monsters from my own homeland. “Like this.” 

Rabbit turned and looked at Goat, a look of—hesitant worry, perhaps even shame in the way he bit the corner of his lip and looked down. I’d never imagined it, but at first, I quite thought Rabbit was Goat’s son. But they didn’t look a thing alike. Rabbit had a lithe frame, bright green eyes and rich black hair that fell out in thick waves. But who was I to guess about familial differences or genetics in this world?

“I would never forget you, sir,” I amended. “After all, I’d never forget the only man who’s ever tried challenging me to a drinking contest in my own bar.” The room held a pregnant pause before we both broke out in a faint bit of laughter. He shot me another smile before beginning to cough violently. I tasted the hot tang of copper before the blood, bright red splashed onto a handkerchief. 

“All—,” Rabbit squeaked out before Goat put a hand up.

Goat looked at the young man seriously before motioning towards me. “No names. Mr. Kharga, would you please give this young man his name?”

“What do you mean? My name?”

I nodded and placed my hands on the bar top, glancing at the young man—dressed in a formal button up and slacks and standing at attention as I stared. “Welcome to the Yatagarasu, young man. My name is Mr. Kharga, I am the owner and sole staff member. As long as you are in this bar, you are safe. You will not be harmed. You will not be outed—” I pointed at Goat. “But there are rules you must follow for that protection.” I held up one finger. “Firstly, no one here uses their real names, wears identifying clothes or insignias. This is a bar. People come here for rest and for a drink after a hard day.” I held up a second finger. “Secondly, no fighting. I pride myself on this bar and if anything in here is damaged, I will exact my pound of flesh.” I lowered my voice this time, looking into Rabbit’s eyes and ensuring that I pronounced every last word with the utmost clarity.

“Don’t scare him,” Goat mumbled before taking his seat—his, he remembered. 

“To circumvent the first rule, I provide all my patrons with a name they may be referred to as, so no one is constantly going ‘Hey, you there with the face and eyes.’ Now then,” I paused and resumed my inspection. He had strong legs. I could see the slacks hug against his calves, and they had seen some exercise. So fast, maybe even one who prefers speed over power. Very scared though—no, nervous. Anxious. I snapped and held out my finger towards him, “I name you, Rabbit. Welcome to my bar, please—take a seat.”

“E—excuse me? Why Rabbit?”

“Well, simply because you look as fresh as a newborn bunny compared to us antiques,” I said, motioning towards Goat and myself.

“I don’t even know I would compare myself to you,” Goat said. “Would you happen to have the usual?”

I tucked my hands in front of my shirt and cleared my throat. “Two fingers of Kentucky Bourbon, three ice cubes, slightly stir to cool. And for our dear Rabbit, what would you care for?”

Rabbit looked at me and then Goat before taking his seat next to him. “I—I’m still underage Mr. Karuga.”

Goat Cringed, I held in a chuckle. 

“W—what? I don’t want to—I shouldn’t drink even if we’re celebrating,” Rabbit squeaked. His face had gained a faint flush to it, and he pushed his hands into his lap, tracing the whorls on the bar top with his eyes and murmuring to himself. 

“No, I wouldn’t let you drink if you’re underage,” I said. “I run a legitimate business; I just have varying prices depending on clientele.”

“Which I don’t believe is legal,” Goat said.

“So, you’re upset that I charge the Commission President ten-thousand yen for a beer?”

Goat let out a quick scoff before waving it off and looking at Rabbit. “Mr. Kharga is not from Japan, so he always finds it funny when people cannot—well, pronounce his name.”

Again, another flush from Rabbit as he began furiously apologizing—standing up from his seat and bowing fast enough that I shivered from the breeze. “It’s alright. In Japanese there is no character for the kh sound. I traditionally write my name ha-ru-ga because it’s the closest that I can do to the sound. Pay it no mind. You may simply call me Mr. K or Crow if that helps.”

“No, please, let me try again I can—”

I shook my head and reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I take no offense. Please, rest easy and order anything you like. If not alcohol, I can make you a cup of green tea or coffee?”

“His coffee is delicious,” Goat said.

“I will take a hot tea,” Rabbit said, acquiescing and taking his seat.

I set myself to work, pouring and boiling the water while the two spoke.

“Young—ah, Rabbit here has made me very proud,” Goat said. “Tomorrow he begins work at a professional hero agency.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw the young man and Goat sitting next to each other. Teacher? Mentor and student. Closer. Something tying them—and then I realized their position. Goat sat in his seat, but before him, a woman would sit there. And where Rabbit sat, Goat once sat. Now I understood why—lingering beneath cologne and deodorant and the outside world—I caught a lingering scent. Something they both carried though with Rabbit far stronger than Goat. “Congratulations, Rabbit. I wish you success in your endeavors.”

“Thank you, sir—”

“Three years of hard work—harder training. You’ve done so well.” The two spoke at the same time, but when Goat finished his sentence, I caught Rabbit rubbing the corner of his eyes as I laid down their glasses before them.

“Please, enjoy. In honor of your success please pay no worry to price.”

Goat smiled and laid a hand on Rabbit’s shoulder. “I think this means I may enjoy myself tonight, even if my stomach isn’t what it used to be.”

“Sir,” Rabbit exclaimed as Goat laughed.

“No, you still have to pay for your drinks, Goat,” I said. I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling my shirt bunch up under my vest—though the dramatics were worth the uncomfortableness and Goat deflated even further. “Now then, please enjoy and if you need me—” I motioned to a small stool in the corner behind the counter where a small black book lay waiting to be read. They both gave me a bow, releasing me of my service as I went to my corner.

Of course, the book had nothing in it. It was just a simple black book I had picked up from a secondhand store a few blocks away. I never liked to admit I listened in to my customers—but gameshows and news reports can only give me so much. I liked listening to their stories, being a vessel to remember their lives and struggles, even if they become lost to the annals of history. So, I licked my thumb and turned it to a new page—blank and awaiting.

“I came here with Nana when I was your age…on the night of my graduation as well,” Goat said. 

Rabbit tensed and then looked to me. “Sir, names—”

Goat shook his head and looked down. “They are the one exception to the rule besides Mr. Kharga. In his own words, ‘the dead deserve to have their names spoken.’” 

Rabbit nodded and sipped the tea—letting out a brief n! and ah before putting it back down. 

“Then though, she was called Stork. And Nana always ordered a tall cold beer. Ice cold. She always moved around and worked so much she said she’d overheat—especially in summer. And she’d want something to freeze her over before she got back to it.” One of my favorite regulars—the third in a legacy I’d proudly served in my bar.

“And you were here too?” Rabbit asked.

“Yes, she brought me here—didn’t tell me where we were going or why we needed to take the train for so long. She just kept telling me I would understand when we arrived.”

“Did you?”

“Absolutely not. I got my first warning ten minutes into being in the Yata. Caused Mr. Kharga no shortage of hassle as he had to—well, demonstrate his ownership of the bar.”

I let out a brief chuckle and turned the page in my book. Goat was one of only four people to last longer than one minute after breaking the rules of the Yata. It’s why I let him come back to apologize.

“What did you talk about?” Rabbit asked.

Goat lowered his head and stared into his glass. He sipped at it gently, holding the bourbon in his mouth until it must have burned, and he swallowed hard. “Would you save me?”

“What?”

“That’s what she asked me after the introductions. She looked at me and asked, ‘Would you save me?’”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“Neither did I. Not for a long time after.” Goat turned in his seat to look at Rabbit. “Back at Kamino, do you remember what I said?”

Kamino? I thought I’d remembered reading about that some years ago. One of the last times I actually saw a photo of Goat—though I hadn’t realized it was him in the aftermath. 

Rabbit thought for a moment before staring into his tea, whispering, “Next, it’s your turn.”

Goat nodded and looked back to his drink. “Nana asked me, ‘Would you save me?’ Would you—as a hero with all my strength and wisdom, what little there may be, save me when I am in trouble.”

And for the third time, I’d heard that questions asked in my bar. And I wondered what answer young Rabbit might give. He opened his mouth, ready to declare that—of course he would—just like his mentor before him, but he paused.

“Save you? But you’re All Might, I—”

I lowered my book and leveled my gaze on Rabbit, focusing on the small dark parts of his being. My brows furrowed and my lips pressed into a firm line as I watched the young man’s body tense as he gasped in pain.

“Mr. Kharga—” Goat interjected but I just stood up and began a slow pace to the counter.

Rabbit shifted his weight to his front leg. A feint away from the bar—maybe to get out of range and ease the ripping and boiling sensation spreading throughout his body. A line of sweat appeared on his brow as a faint turquoise glow began to emanate from his body. He was ready for a fight, and it looked like I wasn’t off about his fighting style. His legs were spaced apart, with one in front of the other as though he was ready to leap towards me. And then I heard something, a faint mumbling under his breath—full something—forty something. 

As I raised my hand, ready to release Rabbit from my power and begin our conversation on why you do not breach the rules of my bar, I felt something clasp me. I looked to see Goat, his eyes burning and staring up at me in an almost hopeless worry as he clutched at my raised hand.

“Don’t. Please. He didn’t mean to.”

There was a brief flare of anger—that he’d touch me—that he’d presume to tell me my business. But I took a deep breath. I could not lose my temper with someone as tenured in my bar and who has earned my respect quite like Goat. I couldn’t expose myself because I let loose a little too hard—I couldn’t become a target for the Heroes Association. “Young man. What you just experienced was my quirk. I will not tell you its name, and I will not tell you it’s triggers because like much since you’ve walked in here, it will grant you a form of power over me. But I want you to know, right now, that if you break the rules of my bar again—willfully or otherwise—I won’t hesitate to bring your existence to its closure.”

I gripped Goat’s hand in return and lowered it to the counter before returning to my seat. Rabbit remained motionless, the faint glow still around him as his eyes followed me, darting from my hands to my eyes to the room itself—looking aimlessly for what caused that knife-crawling feeling inside of his own skin and belly. 

“Rabbit, sit down, please,” Goat entreated. He waved back to the seat and pushed Rabbit’s drink towards the end of the counter. It better not spill—tea seeps into the wood too easily.

Rabbit carefully stepped back to the counter, this time sitting on the opposite side of Goat—the farthest seat away from me in the corner. I applauded his caution—in his line of work, it pays three times to be careful over acting quickly. A rabbit that’s fast lives long, but a rabbit who knows to hide from the hawk lives longer. “Sir,” he said.

“Would you save me?”

Another pause. This time I did not hide my attention as I watched them, and Rabbit kept his eyes on me before turning them on his mentor. Goat, however, just sipped at his drink and stared into his reflection—muted and shaking in the bourbon and ice.

“I never imagined a world where you wouldn’t save me,” Rabbit began. “And then, you did—you actually did save me. And then—all of our work. You—you kept saving me, you kept fighting with a smile to protect everyone and now—now you’re asking me to save you? I—” His breath caught, and he bit back another set of tears.

“When Nana asked me, I didn’t know what to say. I told her she was ridiculous. That I would save everyone in trouble. I would protect everyone I could because—well, I was the hero.” Goat finished his drink in one final gulp and knocked it against the bar. “I didn’t save Nana. She saved me, one last time. I watched her vanish into the distance, and the next thing I knew—I couldn’t answer her question anymore. I just saw the lightning—heard the boom—and then…I couldn’t answer her question anymore. So, Rabbit, would you save me?” Goat turned in his seat to face his student, his legacy, and waited.

The bar was quiet for some time, and I waited as Rabbit stared in horror, in sorrow and shock, at the man who seemed to have given him more than I may ever know. When Nana was asked that question, she laughed and said, “Only if you promise to pay for my dinner afterward, because if I’m saving you, it means I’m going to have to put in some work.” I hadn’t thought about her in years, but watching these two—it made me miss the long nights of arguing with Stork whenever she’d come in.

“I hope I never have to save you,” Rabbit began. “Because that means I’d have failed making the world a safer place. I promise to become the new symbol of peace and make this a world that I won’t have to save you from.”

I’d never seen Goat cry, but that night I watched little stars far silently into his glass as he nodded. Goat’s hand slid his glass to the back of the bar, and he draw a small X with his fingers. He was done.

After that night, Rabbit would come in every so often, but only after completing a mission in the area. He’d learned the rules of the Yata and would visit with some of his coworkers or classmates—Sugar Glider, Mantis Shrimp, and Bugbear especially. Actually, he’d introduced Mantis Shrimp to the Yata, and the two got into a heated discussion when Mantis Shrimp had to prove that he would pronounce my name correctly faster than Rabbit learned to. The idiot nearly scored the top of my bar with all his shouting and hollering—and I would have charged him for every last minute of work I would need to refurbish it.

When he would come in on his own, he would order a cup of tea and we would talk about his work. Talk about why I have a specific night every week where I allowed “villains.” Talk about what it meant to be a hero, a member of a legacy that could do such amazing things with only enough time an effort. Though no amount of battles he had fought, villains captured, had prepared him for the absolute havoc of a misinterpreted calendar.

About five years after we had first met, Rabbit had come to the Yata after a particularly gruesome battle with the Grand Commander of the PLF. Rabbit had lost one of his fingers in the fight—collapsed into dust as he said he’d tried reaching out to save the commander from falling off into a ravine. It was his right middle finger—now a smooth space on his hand only just recently replaced with a metal prosthetic. 

“My personal support engineer said that, with enough tweaking, I should be able to maneuver it like before.”

“It won’t be the same though. It’s a good thing you don’t favor yourself to be a pianist,” I said. Rabbit let out a small chuckle before tracing his fingers along the cool metal knuckles. “Have you fought this particular patron before?”

Rabbit laughed and rubbed the sides of his head. “Too many times to count. And every time I just barely make it. Always one step faster than me. And I just—I can never reach him.”

“Well, perhaps you should speak to your engineer about an extension feature.”

“What? Oh—ha-ha.” Rabbit looked at me and wiggled his fingers before sighing. “Goat visited me in the hospital…and I couldn’t look at him as I told him what happened.”

“Because you lost your perpetrator?”

Rabbit shook his head. “Because I couldn’t save him. For years now I’ve—Shigaraki has significance to Goat and Nana and I wanted to—”

“What ever happened to the first rule?” a voice called from the top of the stairs. I looked, leaning over the bar to see an older man in his late thirties stepping down the final steps into the bar. His light white hair was tied up in a loose ponytail that hung over his shoulders and brushed the early Spring rain from his coat. The man’s light red eyes stared out angrily and amused at Rabbit who had sprung to his feet, aglow with his quirk activated. Then, a creaking and grisly smile crept on his face, spreading from ear to ear.

“Ah, Chinchilla,” I said. “Based upon Rabbit’s story, I assumed you had finally passed on. I apologize for my error.”

“If I had, I wouldn’t have found such wonderful company to join me tonight, Mr. Kharga.” Chinchilla said, taking long strides to sit at the bar and pat the seat beside him—inviting Rabbit for a drink.


End file.
